


Hallelujah Whispered Softly

by Elliott_Fletcher



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Moving In Together, Post-Canon, Romantic Fluff, Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 12:16:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9726584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elliott_Fletcher/pseuds/Elliott_Fletcher
Summary: Yuuri walks around the table to stand in front of Viktor, and he says, “I’m cold,” in the smallest voice Viktor’s ever heard.“That’s okay,” Viktor tells him, swallows him whole with just his thin arms, and it is warm, getting warmer, steadily.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I was a pinch hitter for YOI secret valentines, and this was done in three days yet is still my longest work (WHAT???) I'm really proud of this and worked really hard so be sure to give it lots of love! Special thanks to TroyaoiSivan, LittleAverill, and blackcricket who all beta'd and saved me. Please enjoy!

It is cold in St. Petersburg — cold on the walk from the airport, cold in the hallway, and cold with a key between his fingers as he turns it through the lock. The apartment is cold, too, though a furnace hums somewhere within the walls. He steps inside and inhales a waft of lavender which he presumes is from the mop pail stranded in the middle of the hallway.

“I - ” His voice is not as loud as it should be, does not come easy as he wills it out into the air. He has to try again. “I’m h-here.”

From around the kitty corner, he distinguishes Viktor’s voice among the clinking of dishes. Viktor exclaims in Russian — and Yuuri’s grasped enough of the language, now, to understand what he says — “Ah! Yuuri’s home, Mama.” His footfalls thud against the hardwood floor, and he appears, ecstatic in his eyes and his smile, a checkered towel in his hands and suds along his forearms where he has rolled the sleeves of his flannel shirt to the elbow. 

“I’m gonna greet him,” he jumps over the mop pail like it is a hurdle and skids to a stop mere feet in front of Yuuri, the stretch of the _Welcome_ mat between them. Their eyes lock, and Viktor rushes his words: “Okay, I love you — Yep, bye!“ 

Thoughtlessly, Viktor tosses the house phone — an old, cream wireless with a thick antenna protruding from the head — in the direction of the couch, where it lands square on Makkachin’s belly. Viktor pounces on Yuuri, entrapping him in a hug that squishes his arms into his sides and restricts his hastened breath and movement. He smiles wider with every lasting kiss Viktor peppers to his cheeks and forehead, and the single peck to his nose has him giggling. Viktor does not ask how the flight was (he knows Yuuri will always find it dreadful), so he says, simply:

“You’re home,” Viktor holds his face in his hands, and Yuuri has to agree regardless of his hesitation to call anything other than _Yutopia Akatsuki_ ‘home’.

He says, “Yeah,” and watches Viktor scamper back to the kitchen (dodging the pail entirely this time). He unties his shoe laces, loosening far up to the toe before slipping them off. Makkachin saunters over, and he rubs at his collar, touching their foreheads together. He repeats to himself, “Yeah.”

-

“Yuuri? Are you napping?” Viktor calls softly from the doorway, framed in gold light. There is a squatty, Viktor-shaped shadow cast along the floor that Yuuri giggles, delirious, at before he says:

“ _Was,_ ” and he is not bitter so much as reluctant to leave Viktor’s plush, king-sized bed — reluctant to unravel himself from the blankets that smell so distinctly like Viktor (mint toothpaste and lavender).

Viktor steps into the room, clicking the door shut behind him blindly and leaning against it. Yuuri feels his eyes on his skin, a warmth that tingles in his stomach, and he tucks his face into the pillow so Viktor will not notice the drool on his chin.

“You slept through dinner,” Viktor tells him, sliding to the floor, his cheeks puffed with air that he deflates slowly; the buttons on his back pockets _chink_ against the wooden door. It is an uncomfortable noise that alerts Yuuri, waking him thoroughly. “It’s on the stove if you’d like to eat?" 

His voice raises, still soft but hopeful now. It coaxes Yuuri to sit up, and he stands on shaking legs. The floor creaks with the weight of him, each sound out of place, each step aching in his muscles. He pokes the crown of Viktor’s head where the part falls back. Their movements cease, held by their (happy, heavy, sleepy) gazes and the one place they touch. Yuuri leans against the wall, sliding down to the floor and aligning their hips and shoulders until they are even. 

A sob escapes from his throat. Viktor pulls Yuuri into his chest and holds him, holds him tight, palms cupping his shoulders and calming the tremors.

"What’s wrong?” Viktor asks, sweet, the same way he called out to a quiet room, and hushed-like, into his ear. His forehead presses into Yuuri’s, pulling apart the tension.

“I think . . . homesick,” he clenches the wings of Viktor’s flannel shirt in his balled fists, teeth and jaw ringing.

Viktor spent a tranquil hour on the floor, rubbing tender into Yuuri’s temples and retelling the story of when he first left home. He made Yuuri laugh, and now they eat dinner, Viktor for the second time. Yuuri keeps putting his bowl in the microwave for longer seconds, but each time he removes it, it is the same room temperature, never warmer.

“Should we look at possible music for your Free Program?”

Yuuri deflates, resting his head on a book that sits open on the table. The fine print swims, setting a pulse in his temple that he rubs the ache out of. “Not in the mood,” he says regretfully. 

Viktor sighs. “Well . . . ” Yuuri knows he is searching for another interest to lighten the atmosphere, but it clings to the uncomfortable and does not wish to be changed. “I’ve been clearing out the closet to make more space for your stuff — ”

“I didn’t bring that much,” Yuuri interrupts, shovelling the soup into his mouth. It sits unpleasantly on his tongue.

Viktor says, “It’s fine,” dismissive, and he stands from the table. “I found some old diaries of mine. I think they might cheer you up.”

Yuuri tries to smile, but it does not mask the exhaustion in his eyes. “Could we . . . save them for when I’m actually awake to appreciate them?” He stirs his spoon around the bowl, whirl-pooling carrot medallions and cubed meat. He frowns into his murky reflection.

Viktor nods, removing Yuuri’s bowl and whisking it off the cluttered table. “You didn’t like it?”

“I don’t think I could stomach _Katsudon_ right now, Viktor. Don’t take it personally.”

He hesitates. “I won’t,” he says eventually, and he turns to scrape the remainder of Yuuri’s dinner into the garbage bin.

Yuuri feels hazy with the tension of the air and the relentless sinking of his gut. He wants nothing more than to sleep off the sickening sensation. He stands from his chair and rubs his arms as he retreats to the bedroom once more. He tugs on a sweater, pauses, then reaches for the two zip-ups on the dresser. He rolls a second pair of socks over the first because it is cold in St. Petersburg.

-

“Viktor, I’m cold,” Yuuri says into the dark of the room. The void swallows up his words, and he would think Viktor had not heard if not for his emphatic flopping about the mattress.

Viktor hushes between his teeth and asks, _“How?”_ His voices hoarse from the dry air and snoring. “It’s boiling in here.”

Yuuri opens his eyes blearily; he sees sweat along Viktor’s brow and the discarded covers. “ … Sorry,” he whispers, and he rubs at his arms for warmth. The bed jostles beneath him with just those small movements, so he stops. “Sorry,” he repeats, “I’m sorry.”

He moves little and sleeps even less, waking numb with a ringing just beneath his skin. He reaches for his glasses, fumbling, and when he puts them on, the world blends a little blurry from sleep. He holds his breath as he climbs over Viktor to get to the door, and the floorboards creak oddly beneath his socked feet, unfamiliar. He tiptoes to the bathroom, locking it belatedly after he stripped himself of his three sweatshirts and other layered clothing. He turns the shower full hot and lets out a piss before hopping in to thaw.

He stays under the stream until the water flows colder, for an eternity — long enough for Viktor to wake from the dead and cook breakfast because it is laid on the table when he exits the bathroom, bare feet trailing water across the icy floor (the chill sends shudders up his spine).

“Viktor?” He calls.

“Right here.”

“Okay,” He says, and he should be walking forward, but he finds he cannot move. Some force holds him, frozen — the same force that keeps him tense around Viktor like he is nothing more than a stranger and not the one Yuuri loves. He huffs, quiet, and wills himself to move — huffs again.

“Yuuri?” And _Oh_ , it is so much softer. Viktor peers around the kitty corner of the kitchen. He says, “I was thinking a lot last night, and I want to talk to you.” He has this soft smile Yuuri cannot bear to look at, so his gaze drops to the floor. _This is bad_ , the lead in his muscles tells him. _And you just got here, too._ “Yuuri?”

His inhale is sharp, and his eyes sting (he cannot recall the last time he blinked, so he squeezes his eyes shut). “Yep — ” but it is breathless.

“Just . . . let me shower. I’ll be out in five.” And then, belatedly, “There’s coffee.”

Viktor walks past breezily, yelping, thudding, giggling to himself. Yuuri winces but does not turn around. With the light sound of laughter, the ink in his veins thins. The bathroom door swings shut, and Yuuri meanders into the kitchen. He assesses the coffee pot — half full — and walks past to the bedroom where he finds a wrinkled t-shirt and jeans, alpaca socks, and his heaviest sweater. His shoulders droop with more than just the weight of his clothes.

Viktor’s words come back to him: ‘Thinking a lot’ and 'Wanting to talk’ — both sound dreadful, daunting in a way that makes the coffee he now sips unpleasant and the skin of his knees itch. He tugs on his hair and removes his glasses (because he is too worried to see anything more than colour). His coffee has one sip left, and he leaves it in the mug. Five minutes pass too quickly; Viktor is there, in baby blue jeans and a white t-shirt, too crisp for the muddled thoughts riddling Yuuri’s mind.

“Okay,” Viktor claps his hands, and he is standing with eyes alight and hands that fidget at his dampened collar while Yuuri sinks further into his seat. “First of all, don’t be worried.”

“Easier said than done,” Yuuri says, and he drains his cup (the liquid is cold).

“I want to say . . . ” Viktor inhales through his mouth, flashing brushed teeth and a pink tongue. “I want to say that you don’t have to be _perfect_ here. You can take naps and use up all the hot water, have morning breath, leave your socks on the floor, whine about being cold, wake me up in the middle of the night — do it all.” He takes more quick breaths. “I want you to — _I want you to be you_ , and you are _a human_ with a _tendency_ to _be human_ , so don’t — don’t try to hide that. Don’t hide  _anything._ Okay?”

Yuuri stands slowly, and his chair scrapes against the floor.

Viktor asks again, quieter, “Okay?”

Yuuri walks around the table to stand in front of Viktor, and he says, “I’m cold,” in the smallest voice Viktor’s ever heard.

“That’s _okay,_ ” Viktor tells him, swallows him whole with just his thin arms, and it is warm, getting warmer, steadily.

-

It is cold in St. Petersburg — a cold that stiffens his hands and tightens his skin. It bears no resemblance to the cold of Hatsetsu, with heavy snow and frosted glass windows. St. Petersburg is fog rolling along cobblestone and up the brick walls of apartment buildings. Even with the furnace blasting heat from hidden vents, a hot water bottle tucked to his stomach, and Viktor (a space heater) curved along his back, Yuuri shivers.

“What time is it?” he asks, face smushed into Viktor’s arm. He rubs his cheek on the tender skin, and it gradually tenses, twitching, ticklish. He kisses the muscle, and Viktor stirs.

“What? Uh . . . three? It’s _exactly three_ — what’s wrong?” He wraps his arms around Yuuri’s belly, nudging the hot water bottle away and shifting closer to Yuuri since he is too heavy to pull inwards.

“Just cold,” Yuuri sighs. It is not 'just'. He knows there is more to it, and he knows that Viktor knows that, too.

Viktor lays his lips along the back of Yuuri’s neck (soft, pliant, warm), and they only part when Yuuri rolls onto his back. “What’s cold?” Viktor asks, the slightest hush against Yuuri’s cheek where his nose presses from the bridge to the tip.

“ . . . My hands,” Yuuri whispers, and there is no time, no moment, between the words and the holding of his palms. They press against the flood of heat that radiates from Viktor’s naked chest, and though Viktor’s own fingers chill, Yuuri is overcome with the lasting warmth. “And my face, kind of,” he says, and again, without hesitation, Viktor presses the hot of his mouth to Yuuri’s cheek and _breathes_. Yuuri holds himself still, closes his eyes against the lips that have melted into mumblings against his temple.

“What else?” Those pretty lips ask.

“My stomach.”

Viktor pulls Yuuri’s hands from the crest of his collar, and Yuuri curves them around Viktor’s neck, fingertips pressing delicately into the skin along his spine. Viktor rolls onto his stomach, onto Yuuri. He is light in the way he holds himself with his arms framed along the pillow, but the length of his torso and the curve of his legs weigh heavy. They fit from chest to toe, thin and thick alternatively, and Viktor brushes the hem of Yuuri's shirt, pulls it to his sternum and then higher. He presses their stomachs together, and they shiver with the bareness of it. If he closes his eyes, he can feel the dip of Viktor’s navel beside his, and he cants up for a less abstract pressure.

“Warm enough?” Viktor asks, lips on Yuuri’s chin and climbing higher.

Yuuri has the fabric of his long underwear and Viktor’s boxers between his thumb and forefinger, and he rubs the flannel against his fingertips twice before sliding both pants down just . . . just enough to press these warmths together. 

“Almost,” he whispers into Viktor’s mouth when it caresses his, “Not yet.”

-

Tea is warm, but the apartment is cold. He cradles his mug in both palms, breathing in minty steam. He takes a sip, savouring the liquid on his tongue before swallowing. The ceramic _clinks_ against the coffee table, and when he leans back into the couch, Viktor grasps one of his socked feet. He squeezes twice, and Yuuri squirms; if his tea was still in his hands, it would have spilled onto his chest for all he jiggled.

“What are you doing,” Yuuri says, exasperated but in a tired way that puts his ill heart at ease in the evening hours. “I’m ticklish.”

“You’re also tired,” Viktor folds his legs and shifts to face Yuuri on the couch, bringing his foot to rest on his thigh. “Mama used to rub my feet when I was tired.”

Yuuri sighs, sliding closer so it is his shoulders on the armrest and not his back. “You can,” he yawns, “can show me those diaries now.”

“Are you going to fall asleep on me?” Viktor asks, leaning close to touch their noses together.

“ . . . Maybe?" 

Viktor pecks his nose, swinging Yuuri’s legs off his lap and standing in one swift movement. He runs his hands through his hair as he walks, disappearing around the kitty corner. Yuuri reaches for his mug and takes a sip, setting it back on the coffee table just as Viktor slides around the bend on one sock, his other leg extended in a perfected arabesque. He skids to a stop, and Yuuri’s eyes focus on the two butterfly books he cradles in his arms — crafted of brown moleskin with purple stickers.

Viktor makes to faint onto the couch, and Yuuri retracts his legs at the last moment to save them from being crushed. Viktor lies down beside Yuuri so their faces press close, and he sets one diary aside to open the other, revealing crisp, white pages and a felt-blue glitter pen’s scrawl.

"This one’s a journal,” He says, breath hitting Yuuri’s cheek, and he presses his smile to the flush of Yuuri’s skin — all teeth and thin lips. “The other’s a skating wish-list from junior division.”

“Wish-list?” Yuuri asks.

Viktor readjusts himself, tucking into the back of the couch and sitting up against the arm. “For songs I really liked, or jumps I wanted to learn, future themes . . . ” His words dissolve into kisses he engraves along the juncture of Yuuri’s neck where the cotton of his shirt slips and the fever of his face fades.

Viktor reads the entries aloud, projecting his voice in a sweet medium that lulls Yuuri into daydreams. He only wakes with a snort when he hears Viktor’s commentary. He listens to tale after tale, and with the end of each one, he feels a little closer to the Man tucked into his side, a little more familiar in this cold place of fog and steeple. 

He is entranced by the steady flow of words, and they blur together into a single strand until he can no longer hold Viktor’s gaze. He lets his eyes close, slowly, reluctant for sleep to take him, and then he feels a weightless air under him and not the suede of the couch. Viktor’s arms hold him to his chest, legs swept up and rested in the crook of his elbow. Yuuri breathes sharply, dreary and on the verge of unconsciousness, and he tucks his head into Viktor’s neck where his nose can warm.

“Will you put dinner away?” Yuuri mumbles, and Viktor hushes him, laying a kiss at his hairline.

“Sure,” He hikes Yuuri higher in his arms, and Yuuri’s stomach drops. He clenches his fingers into the collar of Viktor’s t-shirt, and he watches his Adam’s apple bob when he says, “You sleep. I’m going to read the other diary. I’ll join you,” Viktor yawns, and the sight compels Yuuri to yawn as well. “I’ll join you soon.”

“Okay,” Yuuri says, and Viktor lays him on the bed. Yuuri wraps his arms around Viktor’s neck and kisses his lips soundly before collapsing onto the mattress. “I love you,” He tells Viktor, and Viktor pulls the duvet cover up to Yuuri’s shoulders.

He kisses Yuuri’s cheek where it flushes pink and removes his glasses. “I love you too.”

-

Yuuri is jerked awake, startled. “What — What _time_ is it, Viktor!”

“Time doesn’t matter, Yuuri. I have the music for your free program.” Viktor leaps onto the bed, jostling Yuuri’s blanket cocoon. He steps on Makkachin’s tail, and a yelp resounds from both Viktor and his dog, sharp against the white noise that fills the apartment. Viktor is giddy, from his pink shoulders to his pink cheeks, and they pinch around the grin he cannot contain when he is with Yuuri. He is vividly overcome with a sense of déjà vu, but it slips away with the tinge of cold on his fingertips.

 _Where?_ Yuuri wants to ask, can feel the word on is tongue, but Viktor is already telling him: “I found it at the bottom of the wish-list, unscratched.”

Yuuri wriggles to sit up in bed, reaching for his glasses, but Viktor says, “You don’t need them. Just — listen.”

He does, with a sleepy, fluttering heart, and he finds Viktor’s hand in his own. It is as warm as the headphones against his ears, hot from Viktor’s own head where it has stayed presumably for the duration of Yuuri’s sleep. An enchanting melody settles him against the headboard, and Viktor sidles beside him, ear pressed to the outside of the right headphone to hear as well.

Quietly, quietly, a voice starts to sing. Yuuri exhales, but the breath does not leave him fast enough. It is a hallelujah whispered softly in his ear. “Yes,” he nods, but he cannot express how much _'Yes’_ fast enough. He squeezes Viktor’s hand, all hat muscle against his, all that skin and bone and heartbeat, and he looks carefully into Viktor’s eyes, though he cannot see them clearly. Blue blends into his eyelashes, and the pinks of his cheeks stretches over his red mouth. Yuuri kisses it, “Yes.”


End file.
